


Inconsequential

by Zjol



Category: League of Legends
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zjol/pseuds/Zjol
Summary: Pain was good, it had always been said. Feeling pain meant you were still alive.Darius stared into his book before relinquishing it to the side. Draven, while still, was awake; the rise and fall of his breaths meant as much, and after a life together, Darius just knew. They couldn’t hide from each other, as much as they wouldn’t try to.Two young brothers, both orphaned and neither alone; a shared adolescence spent in the winding wake of war, following the travelling battalions of Noxus in conquest.
Relationships: Darius/Draven (League of Legends)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23





	1. Darius, 16

**Darius, age 16**

Noxus occupied much of the outlands, bracing both the tepid and the torrid. Darius was fast approaching the age in which he may soon don the helms and the cuirasses he spent much of his youth learning to care for. Many a day he carried, polished, carted, strapped, and plated such armour and weaponry with envy, as he watched the older boys come of age to bend their knees, make their vows, and promise their body and blood.

Draven was years younger, though chores care not of age. He could be seen darting around the camp, scurrying between soldiers, tending to the livestock, cleaning the horse tacks, and more often than Darius would like, Draven could be seen talking back to his elders, earning him punishment; a yank to an ear, a slap upside the head, a shove to the ground.

One such night, he returned to their small tent, limping, a grim expression held tight to his lips. “I hate the horse master,” he said before dropping down onto his bedroll. Darius glanced up from his reading, a finger to lift a page, but said nothing. “He’s a miserable old man, squawking about this, squawking about that.”

“And what did you do today to earn the horse master’s ire?” asked Darius, turning back to his book, sounding very much uninterested. 

He listened to Draven shift around in his bed, taking longer than necessary to get comfortable, elbows and knees thrown about, and finally, Draven huffed and kicked at the thin blanket. 

Darius did not look up, though his reading had long been interrupted. His mind no longer took in the words, his eyes wandered on the page aimlessly, feeling untethered until he felt Draven kneel beside him. “You have your own bedroll, Draven.”

“You keep the best padding under yours,” he grumbled. Darius felt his gaze warm his cheeks and he sighed, shutting the book and sliding it onto the ground of their tent home. 

“That’s not true,” said Darius. He tugged on the blankets and cast it over the two of them, though he remained on his side, head propped onto a hand as he looked down to his brother. A silence came to pass unhurriedly between them.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” mumbled Draven. 

“My birthday is a few days away.”

“I know.”

They laid in the silence as they stared at each other, sharing heat under the blanket against the sucking cold dark of night. They laid as they listened to the tents around theirs quiet and settle, as they listened for the rise of the gentle hum of firebugs. The eldest leaned over Draven and pinched out the candlelight. 

He settled back down, a hand still holding up his head. “I will be joining the ranks,” said Darius. 

“I know,” repeated Draven, annoyance beginning to creep into his tone as he glared up at his brother. 

The eldest laughed a soft huff of air, barely making a sound, barely moving. “I won’t be around to watch over you,” he said. “You must use this head of yours, whatever is in it.” His free hand came to rest on top of Draven’s ear, the thumb to his cheek. “You can not make enemies here. They are all we have.” He leaned down close. “This is our home now.”

In the stretching silence, their green eyes wavered not from each other, even as Draven swallowed thickly. “Have you ever known me not to be on my best behaviour, Darius?” he asked, trying on a winning grin, though the softness of his voice stilted his meaning. 

“You are trouble,” said Darius grimly. 

In response, Draven turned towards the roof of the tent, shutting his eyes, though a smile soon formed on his face. Darius shifted until he was on his back, pressed next to his brother, shoulder against shoulder, beneath one blanket. Both slept soundly until the sun rose.

* * *

The next night came after a day of hardship. Draven had not made way into his own bedroll stumbling into the tent, he had not even made a play at it nor a tease, seemingly his only intention was for his brother’s. Once on it, he made a space for himself, facing from Darius, and he clutched the blanket tight to his body. 

Darius had seen the way Draven stoically hid his limp throughout the day, by way of distant glances across the camp; his eyes had drawn easily to his younger brother’s rigid and awkward form and had gathered well enough that he was in pain. 

Pain was good, it had always been said. Feeling pain meant you were still alive.

Darius stared into his book before relinquishing it to the side. The younger, while still, was awake; the rise and fall of his breaths meant as much, and after a life together, Darius just knew. They couldn’t hide from each other, as much as they wouldn’t try to. 

Darius pressed his fingers to the flat of Draven’s shoulder blade where the seam of the blanket opened up to skin. He felt the hitch of breath and he paused slightly before he peeled the blanket forwards. Uncovered, Darius studied his back, humming once he looked it over, and shifted until his back pressed to his chest. 

“Ow,” said Draven. 

“Stop your whining, it’s not so bad,” muttered Darius. He tsked as Draven wriggled against him, and he threw an arm over his middle to hold him still. “Rest now.” 

Draven continued to resist and eventually rolled onto his other side in the cramped space of the bed and there was a simmering glare in the deep green of his eyes as he faced his brother. Darius knew this look well and he knew of where it would lead them; it was not often Draven was reduced to silence.

Darius breathed in deep. He had yearned for a long night’s rest, to draw strength for his training, though the force of life makes itself noticed at a time of least convenience, and that was that. He leaned to pinch out the candlelight and once extinguished, he shuffled under the blanket, where his sense of smell was filled with the last wisps of smoke and the scent of Draven. 

“Sleep now, hm?” the eldest coaxed. While he could not see him in the dark, he could plenty feel him, his inhales, his exhales, his warmth, and the surefire pierce of his gaze. Darius reached out and placed a hand on his arm, pulling until he relented and laid in his arms. 

“It’s your birthday soon,” whispered Draven. “On the next night, you will be of age.” 

Darius settled close beside him, his chin to his temple, his arm over his. He had an inkling of where the train of thought was taking his brother, but where his worries laid, he could not parse. “I will still be here.”

“No, you won’t. You will be in the barrack tents, with the rest of the men.”

As he spoke, Darius could feel the beat of his heart thrumming throughout his body. Draven was holding back tears, he realized, and he pressed his nose to his hairline, like he had always done when they had been younger, rolled up into each other’s arms, keeping warmth and keeping faith in one another. Up until now, it had gotten them through anything and everything. 

“Are you going to miss me?” Darius teased, though the humour fell flat. Draven had thought as much and made to leave his arms, but Darius tightened his hold. “Sorry,” he said. “This is a poor time for poorer jokes.” 

When Draven failed to reply, Darius leaned his head down to touch the tip of their noses, his forehead to his, sharing closely the air, until he felt Draven even his breaths, until his body fell lax beside him.

When Darius pressed against his cheek, he felt the run of hot tears, and he lifted a hand to brush them away. He pulled his brother even closer, smoothing his palms up and down his back, like he had always done when Draven had been so small and so prone to wails, crying until his little voice gave out, his once tiny hands fisted against his once tiny face. So much has changed, yet…

Time, Darius realized, is inclined to repeat itself. 

He brought a hand to Draven’s jaw, following down the curve to his chin, and he lifted to press his lips to his forehead. He is still young, thought Darius. He has yet to understand. “You must carve a path of your own,” Darius murmured to his brow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> August 30, 2020
> 
> A new work of a new theme. Thank you for reading.  
> I've written a couple other things, too, so check those out if you enjoyed this one. Cheers. Zjol.


	2. Darius, 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The years have been a blur of blood and blade, of unsettling silences on the battlegrounds, of hunger, of fatigue.

**Darius, age 24**

Darius had spent his transition of youth to adulthood whilst deep in the conquest for Noxus. 

It was a hard job for a meagre living, though it had never been of riches for Darius. He sought to claim power in the name of his home state, to conquer and crush those who feared, those who opposed. It was a destiny one could not escape from, much like how his parents could not outrun. It was their undoing, he had decided. They should have embraced the inevitable. 

The years have been a blur of blood and blade, of unsettling silences on the battlegrounds, of hunger, of fatigue. He had survived his scars, outlived brethren, and had hardened to the grim-set man today. 

And today marked a special occasion. 

He wove through the crowd of foot soldiers, shrugging off drunken pats and dodging tipping drinks, the sloshes of liquor running closer than for comfort to his ceremony cloak. Still, he laughed with them and nodded in gratitude to their congratulatory gestures, cheering on to their drinks despite the lack of his own in hand. The revelry was bright and bold and he had not felt so much relief in years.

Their mess hall was a modest tent, overflowing with the men he had grown to know, grown close to, and grown to trust. He knew well that he would lay down his life for them, as well as he knew they would for him. While these headstrong fighters clashed and bickered with him and with each other, he found he did not want to be parted from them. 

Without them, all would be lost. In spite of the bloodshed, loss, and the hunger, the company had made significant territory, fighting off the last of the insurgence, devouring the lands and its people with the might he had once feared himself. 

Darius feared nothing now. Fear was below him.

* * *

While the meeting of a battalion under the roof of one tent for a mess hall was a partially filled task at best (as many companies found themselves under the stars, though not entirely beyond the service of drinks...), calling for the quiet of spirited men was next to impossible. 

In the short-lived semi-calm, the captain of their company called upon Darius, drawing him up onto the dais, and bestowed onto his breast the lieutenant’s crest. It shone in the candlelight as the raucous cheers filled the hall, tankards knocking against tabletops as the full battalion clapped and whooped in celebration. Darius allowed himself two drinks, though in truth he had stopped counting after the fourth. 

He was happy, he realized, elated with victory, eased in mind from worry, and he milled about the celebration, chatting with those within his own company, and meeting those within the battalion. Names went in one drunken ear and out the other as their faces blurred and blotted, though one did catch his eye. 

Ridiculous hair and a ridiculously familiar smirk turned to him. “Told you,” he said, though he was not speaking to Darius, but rather the group of soldiers around him. “Don’t you see the resemblance?”

“Yer full of shit, Draven,” came a voice. Laughter burst from some of the men. 

“Draven?” asked Darius, bleary with drink. 

“Brother of mine,” exclaimed Draven. “It’s been a while.” His eyes flicked down to his new crest before arriving back to his face. “Congratulations, by the way.” 

Darius blinked as Draven surveyed the men around him with a smug smile, coming close to throw a thick arm around his shoulders, and bellowing for another round of drinks. 

It _had_ been a while. This Draven was standing tall, having risen to the same height as him; his arms filled with strength; a voice deep and rough hewn, speaking loudly in a brash tongue. This Draven was not the Draven he remembered. 

Though when he turned his face to him, those bright emeralds of eyes meeting those of his own, Darius was soon certain. “You’ve...changed,” he managed. 

“I should hope so,” replied Draven in a sharp toothed grin. He lifted his chin in an arrogant defiance. “You were not the only one on the field.”

Darius stared at him. To which Draven guffawed at as he tossed his head backwards, his long locks flailing behind him. “Truly, then?” spoke up one of the men, with wide eyes and awe. “Your brother is the lieutenant of the captain’s guard?”

“Yes,” swallowed Darius, his gaze wavering not from Draven’s. “I am his brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> September 3, 2020
> 
> Non-linear storytelling, what fun! Zjol.


	3. Darius, 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you doing?” asked Darius, knowing very full well the answer. He watched Draven’s tongue dip out between his lips as he managed his focus to reply.

**Darius, age 15**

It had happened overnight. 

Hadn’t it?

There was a cloying, sweet smile to Draven’s lips. Darius watched his mouth move, as if speaking slowly, smoothly, silently. The end of a pen tapped at his chin. There was a smudge of ink on his jaw. 

Draven was spread on top of his bedroll, propped up on his elbows, poring over worn papers and a worn book. 

“What are you doing?” asked Darius, knowing very full well the answer. He watched Draven’s tongue dip out between his lips as he managed his focus to reply.

“Practicing my letters.”

In the quiet, Darius watched as he guided his pen back into the small glass jar of ink, dipping once, twice, and scraping with an unpracticed hand against the rim, before bringing it back to the paper. Droplets fell, forming black blots on the margins, and Draven hissed a curse. 

“Draven,” said Darius, sharply. He waited as his brother turned to face him, a nervous lip sucked into his mouth, his eyes wide and wary, though not without the usual haughty demeanor. 

“Is there a problem?” asked Draven, voice low. 

“Such vulgarity on my brother’s tongue,” chided Darius. “Where would he learn these words?”

There was a giggle and his smile grew wider. “The men at the stables.”

“Which men?”

“The horsemen.”

Darius nodded sagely, as if they both had not joined the other youths in gathering around the camp gates to see the riders off. So gallant, so fair were their steeds; tall creatures, strong and swift; a great cavalry in riveted bardings and flared peytrals, the first light of day gleaming off the polished plates as they rode off into the mountains. 

“Such foul mouths,” murmured Draven, as Draven smirked before turning back to his writing. 

The men had seemed to be of a different breed than those the brothers served; they had been paler, with dark hair and gentle eyes. The horse master had said they had ridden far after betraying their land for the might of Noxus. He had also warned that they could not be trusted. Darius need not be told twice, but he also could not help but admire the tall riders, their patterned robes, and the ties of their long hair. Young Draven had thought the same and spent more time than he ever had at the stables, which soon after Darius found he could not care less for the horsemen.

When they had crowded at the palisades, huddled amongst the stable boys, all Darius could think, could want was for the riders to leave. It had been agony watching Draven of barely contained adoration wave each of the riders goodbye with stars in his eyes and ruddy in the cheeks. 

As the last of the peculiar cavalry passed the gates, Draven had insisted on staying to watch their cantors recede into the distance and he had wondered aloud when they should see them again. Darius hoped it was never. 

“They did strange things with their mouths,” said Draven suddenly, still dutifully writing along the lines on his paper, over and over, practicing loops and dashes of their language. 

Having spent most days at the smithy, Darius frowned at his brother. “What things?” 

Draven shrugged; an impressive feat as he was propped on his front, his eyes still set to the page, pen in hand still moving. 

“Draven.” 

He shrugged again, though his lips betrayed him as he struggled to staunch a smug smile from forming, as if delighted to have a secret he could keep. This withholding made Darius furious. 

“What things, Draven?” he demanded. He moved towards his bedroll and, as if expecting it, Draven scrambled up, still with that preposterously self-satisfied smile. 

“Why do you want to know so badly?” the younger teased, shoving at his brother. “Huh, Darius?”

“Just tell me,” grumbled Darius, batting his hands away. “Tell me at once!”

“Tell you what?” asked Draven, coy. 

Darius glared at him. “What strange things did you see the horsemen do?”

The younger pretended to think, eyes drifting upwards as he pinched his brows together. “Well,” he began slowly. “They would speak to their horses as if they were people,” he tilted his head, “and would often sit by them both morn and eve as if in prayer.”

This time, Darius shoved at his brother. “With their mouths, Draven!” he growled. He loomed over him. “What did you see?”

Draven seemed pleased as he gazed up lazily at his brother. And then in a low whisper, “I saw it happen more than once.” 

Frustrated, Darius drew downwards, turning slightly until he felt warm breaths to hear his words more clearly, waiting for him to continue. 

“They kissed each other,” breathed Draven into his ear. “On the mouth.”

Shocked, Darius turned to face the younger. “All of them?” he whispered back, incredulous. To this, Draven only shook his head adamantly. 

“Just some of the horsemen.”

“Perhaps a custom of their homelands,” muttered Darius, though he quickly drifted to a stop when he noticed Draven snickering below. “What is it now, Draven?”

Sly and swift, Draven moved up onto his elbows, and in a conspiratorial whisper, “If a horseman had kissed a horseman, it would only ever be the same one again.” It took a moment for Darius to feel his hands curl, his fingers digging deep into the blanket, gathering it into his fists, as Draven cocked his head. “Does that make their mouths foul?” he asked softly.

Darius could not bear to look at Draven any longer. He sat up and recognized what this had been worth. He pulled away, pulled a grounding breath, and rose to withdraw back to his own bedroll. In an effort to seem unaffected, he said, 

“Only when they curse.” 

He pulled the sheets over his shoulder, all the while feeling the unbroken gaze on his turned back, and the unspoken words suspended in the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> September 5, 2020
> 
> Hello! Thank you for reading. Zjol.


End file.
